


Marble

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When news of Michael's retirement reaches Carlo, he tries to make a decision for two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'what if Michael Schumacher retired' challenge on F1slash in April 2005.

The phone was ringing. Fernando could hear it: the deep, shattering tone of the old-fashioned telephone he'd seen downstairs, where it sat on a marble-topped table and looked out of place. Not many things looked out of place in this apartment, but the phone did. Fernando suspected that he did, too.

He lifted his head from the pillow and got up. His sleepiness was chased from him the moment his bare feet touched the cold stone tiles of the bedroom floor. Marble again. He preferred the warmth of terracotta. It gave more heat than marble, but as Flavio had kindly explained once, terracotta was for peasants. Marble was the stone of kings. Fernando had tried hard to change his preferences, but he feared at times that he was still so very gauche.

The ringing of the telephone came to an abrupt halt as soon as he put his hand on the doorknob. It was so sudden that Fernando had the impression that he'd somehow answered the phone by the simple action of opening the door. He almost spoke out loud in greeting, but then silenced himself. Downstairs he heard Carlo say, "Hello? Yes, it's me. Hello. What is…"

Fernando tuned out. Sometimes it was an advantage to eavesdrop – everybody in the paddock used the radio devices to enable them to listen in on their rivals, even if such devices were illegal and unsporting and often not worth the money that was spent on them – but he drew the line at listening to private telephone conversations.

He leaned against the doorjamb and scratched his hand across his belly, feeling the roughness of dark curls give way to the soft cotton of his pyjama pants. He yawned, and was about to go back to bed when he registered that the conversation downstairs had frozen.

Fernando took a step out of the bedroom and peered over the banister. Carlo had not hung up. The phone, ugly black thing that it was, was still clasped in Carlo's hands. He'd taken it from the table and was holding its body in one hand, the receiver clamped tight to his ear. Fernando watched the tension writhe up Carlo's naked back to sit square across his shoulders. Whoever was on the other end of the line had obviously delivered a shocking message.

Carlo finally breathed again, and his words came out in a tumble: "Are you sure? Certain? This is not a joke? But I don't understand. How can you – Yes. I know that. But why – Well, of course…"

Fernando frowned, wondering who it could be and what could have been said. Perhaps it was Luna, but he imagined that Carlo would be more expressive in a conversation with her. Instead, he was controlled, almost robbed of emotion. Another driver, then? Or perhaps one of Carlo's ex-lovers, unhappy with his fledgling relationship with Fernando?

"I understand. Yes." Carlo sounded as if the conversation was coming to a close. There was a pause, and then he said smoothly: "No, I don't know. No idea. I'm not his keeper, you know. No, I'm not being – Goodbye."

Fernando skipped back into the bedroom and pushed the door so that the tongue just tapped against the lock. His feet thumped on the cold marble, and so he launched himself across the floor and rolled onto the bed. The sheets had been tangled and twisted before, and now he pulled them up in what he hoped was an artful display. He didn't want Carlo thinking that he'd been eavesdropping, especially when it had been such a strange conversation.

Carlo came into the room a few moments later. He stood in the doorway and smiled at Fernando, admiring the play of warm April light that spun lazy strands of gold through the window and across the bed.

"Good morning."

"Hey." Fernando didn't have to feign sleepiness, or the yawn that threatened. "I heard the phone ringing. Is everything okay?"

"Did it disturb you?" Carlo looked concerned. "The bell is very loud."

Fernando shook his head, not realising that his question hadn't been answered.

Carlo came closer and sat on the edge of the bed. He seemed hesitant now, in the morning light. Fernando wondered if this was due to the phone call or if he was regretting what had taken place between them last night.

"So…" Fernando prompted, sitting up so that the sheet dropped to his waist.

Carlo's glance followed it. He stared at Fernando's naked chest, and then he turned his head and stared out of the window. From where they sat, the sky was an intense pale blue, shocking against the cool white marble of the stonework.

"Get up," Carlo said after a moment. "We'll go for a walk. It'll be a good day today."

***

The sunshine was deceptive. It was cold out on the street, with a thin wind that made Fernando shiver. Carlo had told him to put on a jacket, but he'd gone out in just a t-shirt and jeans. "It's lovely and warm," he'd said, pointing to the haze of light on the marble floors.

Carlo had simply buttoned up his woollen coat and draped a soft cashmere scarf around his neck, the epitome of Italian elegance. "Just because something looks pleasant, doesn't mean that it really is pleasant," Carlo had told him. "But suit yourself. We won't go far."

The city was waking and stretching, settling itself into the new day. Fernando noticed that the pavements were damp. Had it rained last night? He couldn't remember. He could recall nothing beyond the moment when Carlo had paused in the act of pouring another glass of wine; paused and then reached out a hand to touch his hair, his cheek; and then had kissed him. It could have rained. There could have been a thunderstorm for all Fernando had noticed. He had known nothing but the feel of clean sheets beneath him, the soft unease of an unfamiliar bed and even more unfamiliar flesh pressed close.

He missed the heat of Carlo's body next to him, over him, as they emerged onto the wide road that ran through the ancient forums. The morning breeze came down from the Capitoline hill and rolled in from the Palatine. It was open here, and Fernando stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders in an attempt to keep warm.

He glanced sidelong at Carlo as they walked, still worried about Carlo's demeanour. His exuberance and passion were missing, leaving in their place a sombre, thoughtful man. Fernando could only attribute it to the events of last night. He'd slept with enough people to recognise the signs of disinterest once the conquest was over, both in himself and in his lovers, but there was something else about Carlo's manner, something distant, that made Fernando wonder if Carlo even knew he was there.

Carlo stopped at a kiosk and bought two pastries and a bottle of orange juice. They ate quickly, and shared the drink between them with an easy intimacy that reassured Fernando somewhat.

"This way," Carlo said as they finished their breakfast. He gestured towards the entrance into the Forum, where the gates had just been opened. The female guard paused in her stroll back to the information booth, giving the two men a blatant assessing look and a cheeky grin. Carlo smiled back, easy in his beauty; Fernando blushed and turned his head to stare at the high walls of a basilica.

They walked down the concrete ramp that gave access to the Forum. Carlo said, "You know, with each step, we go further back in time." Catching Fernando's puzzled glance, he continued: "The buildings at the top are later, much later… Here also, at the centre of the Forum, it is all jumbled. Many periods of history. But mainly, it is Republican. Not even the Empire could sweep it all away."

"How'd you know this stuff?"

Carlo stopped walking and gave Fernando a look of disbelief. "I am Roman."

"Yeah. But…" Fernando let his voice trail off into silence. He felt young and foolish again. He shrugged, and said, "I suppose that's why you live here and not in Oxford or anywhere else in England. Flavio always complains about it, that you're not at his beck and call."

"He would." Carlo led the way, nudging Fernando to the right as they reached the bottom of the ramp. "But he is not Roman. Just Italian. And he prefers being a colonial even more than that. His villa in Kenya…"

"It's really nice," Fernando said.

"Yes. But it is not real. Nothing in his world is real, do you understand that? I should know. He owned me for long enough." Carlo sighed softly. "His is a world of illusion. He is perhaps the only one of all of us who fits perfectly into Formula One."

It reminded Fernando of how he'd felt in Carlo's apartment, and he said, "I don't think that I fit. Not yet, anyway. I used to be envious of the way that Kimi seemed to find his place so quickly. It has taken me much longer."

"All your illusions come from youth, not from make-believe." Carlo stripped a handful of leaves from a shrub along their path, and then scattered them. "I never fitted in, either. That's why I left Flavio. Because he was trying too hard to make me into something I wasn't."

"Do you think he is trying to do that to me?"

Carlo deflected the question. "He did it to Jarno."

"Yes." Fernando scuffed over the large, rounded stones that had once been the Via Sacra. "What he did to Jarno… I don't understand, even now. I suppose that's for the best. The best for my state of mind, I mean."

Carlo brought them to a halt beside the ruins of a temple dais. The stone was grey and pitted, cold to the touch. At the entrance were laid bunches of flowers still in their cellophane wrappers, pinks and reds and crushed green pressed into wilted offerings. Fernando nudged with the toe of his trainers at the cellophane of the nearest bouquet. It crinkled lightly, and he moved away from it, losing interest.

"This is the temple to Julius Caesar," Carlo said.

Fernando looked up. "Yeah? I thought he was an emperor, not a god."

"Sometimes the distinction gets blurred."

They were silent for a moment, examining the fractured temple. Fernando said, "I suppose these days, Michael must be the emperor. His fans seem to think he is some kind of god, anyway."

"He is no god," Carlo said lightly. "He cannot answer their prayers."

"Not this season!" Fernando smiled suddenly, and then laughed. "So perhaps he is not a god after all."

"Nor even an emperor," Carlo added. "Emperors employ people to do things for them. Like fighting a battle, or winning a championship."

Fernando's laughter rang out and struck the ruined marble around them. "That means that Jean Todt and Luca di Montezemula are gods!"

"In effect, yes." Carlo wasn't smiling. "What do you think Flavio is – and what do you think he would like to be?"

The laughter died. Fernando stared at Carlo. "I think he wants to be both emperor and god."

"A deadly combination for those who work for him."

***

Carlo led Fernando away. They sat on a piece of fallen masonry with their backs to Caesar's temple. Ahead of them lay a jumble of ruins more chaotic than the ones they'd already seen. Fernando looked over them without much interest, noting the grubby triumphal arch and seven tall columns of a much darker stone than the ubiquitous marble. Soaring above it all was the back of the Capitoline, where tourists perched on the overhanging steps like starlings awaiting an augury.

Carlo stared up at the back of the palaces, at the red brick walls of a church. Without expression he said, "The phone call this morning was from Flavio."

"Really?" Fernando half-turned towards him. "Was it about the car? Is there a problem? Does he want -" He stopped, and then said, "Why didn't he call me?"

"Probably he has tried many times. But you turned off your phone last night."

Fernando laughed. "Yes. That was silly of me! But what did he want…?"

Carlo continued to stare at the Capitoline. "Michael Schumacher has quit Ferrari. Quit Formula One completely, or so it seems."

Fernando frowned, shook his head. "But that's – No. Why? What for?"

"Who knows." Carlo shrugged, and then gave a mirthless laugh. "Who cares?"

"Perhaps he's ill. Or Corinna, or one of the children. It must be something serious. It can't be politics and it's certainly not money, so it must be health," Fernando said, trying to work it out.

Carlo lifted a hand and stroked Fernando's hair, tenderly. "You are so real. Anybody else would sit there and plot a thousand ways to break their contract, to fight for that seat at Ferrari – and yet you sit there and worry about Michael."

Fernando stilled his fidgeting at the gentle stroke of Carlo's fingers against his cheek. "I don't like politics."

"You belong to Flavio. One day you will be forced into politics, whether you like it or not."

Fernando was annoyed by Carlo's weary tone, and so he said, more brusquely than he'd intended: "Is that why you didn't tell me this morning, when you came upstairs? Is that why you brought me out here, away from the phone? Because you wanted to play politics yourself by keeping me out of the loop?"

"No." Carlo gave him a rueful smile. "I did it to buy you some time for your sanity."

"What?"

"Think about it. The Formula One world has just gone crazy. Isn't it better to be out here, away from it all?" Carlo gestured around them at the still-quiet Forum. "I always find that sitting and thinking amongst history is the only way to decide the future. Here is all the evidence you ever need of big mistakes and little triumphs. All the errors and wise judgements of humanity, here in one place. It helps, you know. It really does help."

Fernando absorbed all this, and then he said, "You could go to Ferrari."

Carlo smiled a little at that. "Flavio expected that I'd try it. That's why he called, to see if I would honour my contract with him or if I'd break it the way that everybody else in the paddock is no doubt trying to do. But you know what? I won't."

He paused, dropped his gaze to the ground in front of him. "I know I'm a good driver. I would probably do well at Ferrari. But I'm too old now to carry the weight of expectation around on my shoulders. An Italian driver at Ferrari! The tifosi would love it. They would expect so much. Too much. Fans have no limits on their demands. They expect a god, not a man, to sit in that car – especially after Michael."

"You want to be a man," Fernando said softly.

"A man who tries hard, who does his best. A man who works for an emperor: but who doesn't have to respect or love that emperor. A man who does it for himself, on his own terms."

Fernando took a deep breath and sighed. "You think he will push me too hard. That he might send me to Ferrari."

"Listen to me," Carlo said, turning to face him. "I think you're good. Very good. You might even be champion this year. But only if you have a solid foundation beneath you, with a team that supports you. Flavio sees the Ferrari seat as a great prize, but in reality it is a mixed blessing. Whoever takes that seat will not be the next champion. He will be merely an inter-rex."

"Yes." Fernando nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose… Ferrari is built around Michael, isn't it, so it would take time to dismantle that -"

"Look how long it's taken McLaren to rebuild after Hakkinen retired. That's what happens when an emperor is too short-sighted – his empire begins to collapse."

Fernando snuffled with laughter. "You want me to stay at Renault."

"For now, yes. Just for this season."

"For the good of my career."

Carlo smiled again. "And maybe for more than that."

Fernando took Carlo's hand and pulled him up from the fallen masonry. He stood and kicked at the lump of marble. It was crossed with score-lines and worn smooth with age, and it was only now beginning to grow warm from the morning sun. He realised that Carlo was looking at him quizzically, and so he asked, "Why is there so much marble here?"

"Because it's cheap." Carlo nodded towards the seven tall columns of dark stone. "That's granite. Much more expensive. Limestone, marble… there are quarries all over Italy. The Romans used it because it looks good and because it was cheap."

"Flavio told me that marble is the stone of kings."

"Kings and cheapskates," said Carlo. "Like gods and emperors. These days I wonder if there is a difference between them."

"I don't like marble," Fernando said decisively, and then he smiled. "I always preferred terracotta."


End file.
